To write a long piece on Diana Spencer, contributing to the plethora of literature written about her already, is something that I have resisted doing for an extremely long time. Miss Spencer is the sort of topic most serious researchers avoid, bar the odd discussion every now and again. Part of the problem is that if you are interested in her demise, invariably that meant you had to be interested in her, in some way. I make no apologies for the fact that I never was. Thus, I think this dispassionate treatise will undoubtedly ruffle some feathers. Indeed, my good friend Charles Drago advised me along those lines when he told me, “…what do people care about what you think of Diana, it’s the evidence of the case which is the major issue.” Yet – is it really? The towering figure of Diana herself has greatly overshadowed the evidence in the case. Indeed, exploring the world of celebrity conspiracy is a tough one, because rich and famous people have a habit of dying relatively young. Let’s face it, they have a dazzling array of choices with which to do so. You have suicides, drug overdoses, car accidents, plane crashes, drowning, liver failure, bulimia, crazed fans, rival ‘gangsta’ record labels, painkillers and that old chestnut – autoerotic asphyxiation.